“But he still comes back.”
“Yeah. I don’t think he can resist the strippers.”
“How about the security guy, name’s Fitzhugh Botsby believe it or not. Does he come by?”
“No. Don’t know him. Some of the girls came by last week for a birthday party; some really cute gals, but I don’t know their names. Why do you ask?”
“My new boss wants me to do a little research—can’t say what—but I’m going to have to learn a bit about kittens.”
“Are you sure they hired the right guy?” LeRoy laughed as he walked away to attend to a blue-suited gentleman who wanted to get a head start on his drinking day.
I studied the list. Lawrence Lafonte was President. Three women were listed as his assistants: Sybil Troy, Rose Christensen, and Betty Whalen. A Vera Bishop was listed under accounting, along with Marcus Doolittle and Thalia Davidson. The office consisted of Mr. Lafonte, eight women and two men, and the chauffeur and security guy. The staff photos didn’t include Samson and Fitzhugh. There was a beaming Lawrence Lafonte surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women. I looked for Vera’s accounting coworkers and found Thalia, and I figured the bald guy in the back was Marcus Doolittle. It was time for me to take a look at their headquarters.
My eyes had adjusted to the dim interior light, and when I stepped out on the street, I was blinded by the brilliant August sun. I walked right into a policeman, knocking him against the wall.
“Well, Mr. Heron. I didn’t expect to bump into you this early in the day.”
The policeman was a policewoman, Kathy, Kathy MacGregor, Chief of Police. She was dressed in full uniform, her soft brown hair spilling out from under the billed cap and the brass buttons on her chest pressing forward to scatter beams of sunlight like cut diamonds. You’d think her looks would have exempted her from the position of Chief.
“Kathy, how are you?” I smiled.
“Fine,” she answered stiffly.
“Why so formal, Kathy my love? When am I going to see you?”
“You’re seeing me now.” The August heat was not melting the ice.
“How about Friday? We could have a nice dinner, go over to The Swan, see the show, and then spend the night together. Like old times.”
“Blue, I have to tell you something.”
I waited.
“At the Police conference last month. I met someone there.”
“Okay, so you met another nice policewoman. That’s fine, as long as we can get together for a threesome now and then.”
“Blue, you’re impossible!” Kathy sighed. “I met a guy.”
“A guy?”
“Yes, he’s nice, he’s handsome, he’s smart, and he has a fucking job.” Kathy was angry.
“He has a fucking job?”
“Yes! He has a fucking job!” Kathy said loudly enough to cause two passersby to turn their heads. “A job, you know, he has a life!”
“I’m working now,” I protested.
“Yes, for the next week, if you’re lucky. Then it’s back to the Dung Hill Arms, drinking martinis, and watching the rail yards decay.” She turned and walked away. I thought I saw her wipe a tear from her eye, but that wouldn’t be the Kathy I knew.
“Bye.” I said quietly. “See you soon.” The Police Department was a nondescript building a half block away, next to the grand columned Courthouse. I watched Kathy walk by the two squad cars parked in front and disappear through the revolving door.
4
City Hall Park was a quiet oasis in the center of town, framed by most of the town’s administration: the Courthouse, Police Headquarters, and the Mayor Montgomery Office Building. A grand red oak grew in the center and provided welcome shade that shifted during the day with the angle of the sun. The benches across the street from City Hall were filled with the lunch crowd. I picked up a hot dog from the vendor at the corner covered with mustard and sauerkraut. The Park sloped down to the southeastern edge where the KittyLuv building was located. The only bench that overlooked that corner was inhabited by one of the Park’s semi-permanent residents, a bearded, graying man wearing an ancient, frayed serge suit, so oversized that it masked any evidence of his real shape. He wore a wide gold-and-blue striped tie that was chic in the fifties, and that doubled as a napkin. A strange unidentifiable aroma formed an almost visible cloud that hovered over him and added an exotic flavor to my lunch. Our town’s enforcers of moral cleanliness had tried many times to send him on his way, but he persevered and eventually they gave up. He was categorized on the police blotter as Male Loiterer Number Six, and ‘Number Six’ stuck as his name. He had gained a moment of notoriety when the local paper included him in an article about the decline of our morals, and then they forgot about him. I sat down beside Number Six, and gave him a brief “Hello.” He didn’t say anything, or even look my way; he was concentrating on the scene before him.
KittyLuv was headquartered in a classic nineteenth-century building, an elegant relic from the past. Four stories high but only as wide as a two-car garage. A marble arch framed the large, wooden double door at the entrance, and each of the floors above sported an ornate balcony. A massive American flag waved from a rod jutting out just below the peaked roof. A driveway led alongside the left wall of the building, then sloped down to a parking lot in back. A long black limousine sat at the curb in front of the building; a uniformed chauffeur—two rows of brass buttons, slick gloves, and a cap tilted confidently to one side—leaned against the front fender nursing a cigarette. Must be Samson.
KittyLuv’s staff was returning after their lunch break. Number Six suddenly sat upright, his interest aroused, and stared straight ahead.
I tried again. “Nice day, don’t ya think?”
No answer.
“Nice car,” I tried again, motioning toward the limousine.
Silence.
“Too nice!” Number Six suddenly growled. “Too damn nice!”
We sat for a while watching the people on the sidewalk come and go.
“Give money for kittens and look what they buy. What fucking kitten is that going to help?”
“Their brochure says they do good things.” I held out the brochure that Louella had given me.
“Where’d you get that?” Six finally turned toward me.
“It’s their public face. Apparently they give money to rescue homeless kittens in Africa and find them nice loving places to stay.”
“Yeah! Some cuddly, little, fucking home. Fat chance!”
“There’s pictures, look.” I opened the pamphlet to a picture of an adorable kitten, tenderly held by a young woman. “They saved this little kitten from a life of misery and loneliness. Just for, like, twenty dollars or something.”
“Fuck!” Number Six was getting worked up. “People gave money, and they bought that big-assed car. That’s what they did!”
Number Six had a point. It wasn’t really clear how the shiny limousine was helping baby cats.
“There she is.” Number Six suddenly perked up.
“There who is?” I asked.
“Who asked you?” he growled and continued to stare straight ahead.
A radiant glow of red hair sat atop a figure walking toward the front door of KittyLuv. With the